


Anthem of the Angels

by cowgirlfromhell



Category: Supernatural
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-16
Updated: 2018-11-16
Packaged: 2019-08-24 15:45:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 11
Words: 14,983
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16643105
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cowgirlfromhell/pseuds/cowgirlfromhell
Summary: My take on how it will all end. Deathfic. If Kripke hadn't used classic rock, I think he would have used the many great songs by Breaking Benjamin including "Anthem of the Angels"





	1. Chapter 1

White walls surround us  
No light will touch your face again  
Rain taps the window  
As we sleep among the dead

Days go on forever  
But I have not left your side  
We can chase the dark together  
If you go then so will I

There is nothing left of you  
I can see it in your eyes  
Sing the anthem of the angels  
And say the last goodbye

Cold light above us  
Hope fills the heart  
And fades away  
Skin white as winter  
As the sky returns to gray

Days go on forever  
But I have not left your side  
We can chase the dark together  
If you go then so will I

There is nothing left of you  
I can see it in your eyes  
Sing the anthem of the angels  
And say the last goodbye  
I keep holding onto you  
But I can't bring you back to life  
Sing the anthem of the angels  
Then say the last goodbye

You're dead alive

There is nothing left of you  
I can see it in your eyes  
Sing the anthem of the angels  
And say the last goodbye  
I keep holding onto you  
But I can't bring you back to life  
Sing the anthem of the angels  
And say the last goodbye

Breaking Benjamin

The two of them walked side by side in the center of the road. Not a single car had passed them in hours. Croats couldn't drive. Croats could only go crazy and kill or infect each other and finally die of unnatural causes...like a shotgun blast to the face. Dean stopped momentarily to move the sling attached to his shotgun from one weary, aching shoulder to the other while Sam resolutely put one foot in front of the other, determined to make it to their destination before nightfall. The Croats were even scarier in the dark.

"Wait up, Sammy," Dean called out when his younger brother began to outpace him and running up to fall into cadence with him Dean assured him again that the place they had been heading to for the past month was just around the bend.

"You said that at the last bend in the road," the younger brother said morosely, his gaze staring dead ahead.

The two of them had been through hell together and Dean worried that the changes in his brother were sending him down a dark path, away from everything they had ever held sacred, away from each other. "Okay, fine. If the freakin' church isn't around this next bend, I say screw it. We'll head for the coast. A little sand, a little sun," he promised falsely looking up into the mid-morning sky. A sky darkened by the ever-present clouds of doom, as he had come to think of them, the air filled with the ever-present smoke and stink of decayed and burning bodies even as far out into the country as they now traveled.

Sam looked askance at his brother. There wasn't any sun any more or sandy beaches or ocean waves. Only boiling seas, black, burning sand and death. He desperately wanted his brother to stop lying to him because it only made him look stupid. But he would go on pretending to believe that things were going to get better because, despite every brave thing he had done to keep everybody safe, Dean had lost everyone but him.

They walked on again in silence, Dean's footfalls heavy on the asphalt, his breathing labored by the heavy load he carried on his back. Gasoline, salt, wooden stakes, consecrated iron and a Colt Combat commander, plus all the ammunition for it and the shotgun he could carry.

Sam carried all the food they had been able to scrounge at the last farmhouse not overrun by Croats. He shifted his load and sighed, his eyes now only on the road before him as he counted out each step in his head, a trick he used to go one mile further than the day before.

They shied away from cars on purpose. Croats couldn't drive, only the uninfected could and they didn't want to bring any undue attention to themselves because, if their information was right, the church they were searching for was the place where it would all end.

Rounding the bend in the road Dean came to an abrupt halt and smiled, his green eyes sparking for the first time in months. "What'd I tell ya, Sammy boy," he said turning to see his brother's reaction, There's a fence."

Sam simply stood and stared at the ornate wrought iron fence leading to an entrance a quarter mile up the road. Weeds grew in abundance almost obliterating it and the opening and if they hadn't been looking for it they might have passed it by. But when they stood in front of the gate, torn from its hinges and hanging crookedly, they could see hundreds of footprints and dozens of tire tracks leading inside.

"Oh man," Dean said, "This has got to be the place. Look at all the traffic."

Sam looked at the wrought iron sign high up in the center of the archway and read the words aloud, "Megiddo Cemetery," then turned to his brother, disappointment in his eyes, "This isn't a church, Dean."

"Well, no...but it's a cemetery so there's bound to be a church. It's gotta be up that road," Dean said pointing up the dirt road bisecting the fenced property.

The road seemed to head uphill and large trees blocked their view but, once they were past them and well on their way, the grave markers became more prevalent as did the stench of death and Dean knew something wasn't right. Not one bird sang in the trees nor did any crickets chirp in the overgrown weeds. The evil that gripped the land had evidently made its way to Megiddo Cemetery and most likely to the small white building that rose up at the end of the road they traveled, a building surrounded by deserted cars apparently abandoned by the throngs that had made their way to it just days before.

As they walked on Sam noticed the bodies first. It looked as if someone had started burying a few of them but there were so many that it would have been an impossible task. Even without the sun the bodies rotted but the blackened skin and putrid viscera drew no swarms of flies or carrion eating crows. Vultures also gave the dead a wide berth as did the coyotes and mad dogs that normally chewed on infected flesh scattering bones to the four winds. Nothing moved and there was no sound except for two pairs of boots as the two of them plodded up to the entrance of what now looked like a small house.

Sam dropped his backpack onto the ground and closed his eyes and heaved a heavy sigh while Dean sloughed off his backpack and squatted to rummage through the contents. He came up with a handful of 12 gauge shells filled with consecrated iron that he stuffed into the pocket of his army jacket and a plastic jug. "Here, Sammy," Dean said rapping his brother's arm with the holy water as he assured him, "It'll be okay."

"What happened here, Dean?" Sam wanted to know; "There was supposed to be a church, not a house and a thousand corpses."

"Okay, Rob Zombie," Dean quipped trying to lighten the mood but failed miserably when he drew not even a lame smile from his brother. Taking one more look around to be sure the dead stayed that way, Dean signaled for Sam to follow close behind him and they entered the building.

Although austere and ordinary looking on the outside it was indeed a church with rows of pews, some broken and overturned, laid out in a chevron leading away from the alter and when his eyes adjusted to the gloom inside Dean saw the name emblazoned in fancy script with gold paint on the header above them. "Saint Michael's," Dean said aloud and Sam jumped at the sound of his brother's voice, so loud in the eerie silence.

"This isn't right," Sam reiterated.

Although Dean was loath to believe they had come all this way for nothing he was afraid his brother might be right. "Just stick close and don't step in anything. There might be corpses in here, too, Rob," he warned and this time Sam did snicker.

It looked as if the church had been empty when the disturbance had started. The only bodies they had seen were those outside the doors but as they made their way to the altar with the prostrate bleeding Jesus hanging just above it Dean heard someone or some thing take in a raw, raspy breath. He planting the butt plate against his shoulder and raised the shotgun to eye level as hed stepped around a pile of splintered pews.

There in the dimness a man sat with his back against a wall splattered with blood like a perverse Jackson Pollock canvas. He held onto another man, the latter's head cradled in his lap, and looked up at Dean and blinked owlishly, obviously surprised to see him.

Seeing no threat Dean lowered the shotgun and squatted down in front of the pair, his fingers gently touching the carotid artery of the man held so tightly, so lovingly, by the other. He felt nothing but cold skin and rocking back on his heels he said, "Hey man, your boyfriend's dead."

The man leaning against the wall smiled, huffed a feeble laugh and said weakly, "He's my brother."

"Dude, I'm sorry," Dean apologized and looked over his shoulder to make sure Sammy was right there with him. He was surprised to see his brother staring up at the crucifix and called out, "You still with me, Sammy?"

"This is all wrong," the younger brother said again, his eyes glued to the image of Christ, "This is were all of it was supposed to end…the sickness, the dying, all the evil."

"Listen, Sammy, it'll…"

"Stop it, Dean! Stop lying to me!" Sam shouted and, as his brother and the other dude watched, he couldn't help himself and to his shame and embarrassment he started to cry like a baby.  



	2. Chapter 2

Through his tears Sam watched in horror as the man leaning against the wall began to laugh feebly. He turned to Dean, who just gave him the "suck it up, Nancy" look he always did when he had a meltdown, and balling up his fists he dashed the tears away as best he could then turned to glare at the stranger. "What are you laughing at, douche bag?" Sam shouted angrily and the man began to laugh even more…until he clutched his middle and groaned, his smile fading quickly.

The stranger sucked in a quivering, pain filled breath and explained in a soft voice, "You just remind me of someone."

Squatting down in front of the still living dude, Dean pulled his jacket open and decided the guy'd be as dead as his brother in a few hours because the large gash in his guts was still bleeding, had been for a long time. "What happened to you?" he asked as he stood up and moved away to stand next to his little brother.

"Stabbed," was all the guy could get out before pain gripped him once again.

Dean pinched Sam when he felt him shudder and asked, "You okay, Nance?"

Sam huffed and broke away to take a seat in one of the upright pews.

"How long have you been here?" Dean then asked the stranger.

"Few days," came the weak reply.

"You been holding on to him all that time?" Dean asked pointing to the dead man.

"He died a couple of hours ago."

Oh, man that really sucks, Dean thought, but needing information he pressed on, "Was he attacked by the same... person...who gutted you?" The stranger paled even more and Procol Harum's 'A Whiter Shade of Pale" came to Dean's mind only to be blown away seconds later when the dude replied, "I killed him."

Sam stood up ready to bolt and wailed, "That's not what's in the book!" and the soon to be dead man's eyes sparked a little as he stared, first at Sam, then Dean.

"What book?" he asked and Dean immediately became suspicious...and curious.

"What's your name?" Dean demanded, wanting to confirm his suspicions before he said anything about the book.

The man leaning against the wall smiled wanly and told him, "Sam…same as your little brother's."

Dean's mouth dropped open as realization dawned on him. They were in the right place but at the wrong time. They were too late. His little brother was right. This was not in the book. Apparently Dean Winchester was already dead. Lucifer had won


	3. Chapter 3

"So you're name is Dean, huh?" Sam Winchester asked the teen-aged boy standing in front of him

Clearing his throat nervously the boy nodded, "I'm Dean Winters," and, jerking his head toward his brother, he added, "And this is my brother, Nancy."

Sam Winters sniffed, wiped his nose on his filthy jacket sleeve and scowled at his brother.

"Sam and Dean," Sam repeated, a sad smile quirking his pale lips.

"Yeah, pretty freaky, huh?" the boy agreed.

"How old are you two?"

Dean Winter's demeanor changed to one of defiance, his voice taking on a hard edge and he said, "I'm fifteen and piss ant here is ten."

"Douche," young Sam said petulantly looking back up at the crucifix.

Sam Winchester rolled his shoulders trying to find a comfortable position without disturbing his brother even though Dean was now far removed from any more pain or discomfort in this lifetime. "Where are your parents?" Sam wanted to know although by the looks of the pair he suspected they were probably dead.

Young Dean glanced at his brother hoping he wouldn't start crying again. "They're dead," he said in a low voice, his gaze turning even colder, "Croatoan virus."

"I'm sorry," Sam began but the boy cut him off, his chin quivering.

"I'm not! They tried to infect Sammy and…" his heated words suddenly choked him into silence.

"So you killed them," Sam Winchester finished for him and watched as a single tear slipped from young Dean's eye leaving a rivulet in the dirt on his face.

Sam Winchester looked down at his own brother's still, waxy face and remembered the tears Dean had cried at his final betrayal, sadness that had turned to anger, and maybe even to hatred, and he wished again that he could take it all back, his own eyes shimmering with unshed tears.

Shifting from foot to foot the teenager looked at the Winchesters with growing discomfort. It wasn't right to literally hold onto someone who was dead…even if he was your only brother. "You want me to salt and burn him?" he finally asked and when Sam looked back up at him with renewed interest, Dean Winters knew he'd screwed up and back peddled, "I mean bury him."

"Were your folks hunters?" Sam demanded and young Sam turned. He wondered what his brother would tell the hurt dude

The teen squatted back down in front of Sam. "No, not really. My mom knew your dad. Knew all about what he did. She told us he helped her out big time when you two were little kids."

Sam Winchester snorted a breath and his lip curled slightly. The name game suddenly made sense and was followed quickly by the blame game. "So your mom slept with my dad and low and behold, there's another Dean in the world followed by another Sam."

Leaning in close to him young Dean said in a deceptively soft voice, "Not a chance in hell. My parents were already married and my dad would have kicked John Winchester's ass if he even touched her. She respected him, they both did, and that's why they named us after you two assholes." The boy pulled back a little and added, "And if you weren't so messed up, I'd kick your ass."

"Listen," Sam Winchester said plaintively, "I'm sorry. I didn't mean it. I just…"

"Forget it," the boy said with disgust and called to his brother, "Nothing more for us here, Sammy. Let's head for the coast."

"Wait!" Sam Winchester implored, "What about this book?"

Dean Winters paused and asked, "You know a dude named Charlie?"

"You mean Chuck?" Sam corrected him.

"Whatever, dude," Dean said and pulled a sheaf of papers from the inside pocket of his field jacket, "Well, he's dead."

Stunned by the news of the quirky prophet's death, Sam asked, "What about his Archangel?"

"Dead, too. Gutted by a guy with an attitude and rotting skin. Just like your brother and I'm guessin' his angel, Michael," the boy continued and reminded Sam cruelly, "Only gutted by you."

The pain of hearing the words said aloud was vicious and frightening and Sam Winchester thought he actually felt his heart break.

The boy held onto the papers, a well-worn manuscript held together with brass brads, smudged by dirty fingers and illustrated with splotches of blood. "He came to Portland looking for my mom. He said she was the only one he could trust now that you…you know. He didn't know she died almost two years ago. My brother and I lived by ourselves in our house until the rotting dude showed up looking for Charlie. He tortured and killed him for this," young Dean said holding the manuscript tightly in his hand as if trying to crush the life out of the words inside, "But he wouldn't tell him where it was and the dude just cracked out and slit poor Charlie's throat."

Young Sam shivered and stepped away from the altar to stand next to his brother for comfort. He hated the story of Charlie.

"What happened next?" Sam Winchester urged gently despite his namesake's obvious discomfort.

"The house just exploded around us and this dude appeared out of nowhere. But the walking corpse was too strong, too fast. Killed him with a sword."

"And you…"

"Sammy and I took the book from where Charlie hid it and ran like hell. We never looked back, never went back. Been on the road ever since. Just the two of us." Dean wrapped his arm around his brother, pulling him even closer and instead of pulling away, the ten year old leaned into him.

Sam Winchester sighed and lowered his gaze until young Sam spoke up. "Can we go now?" the youngster asked looking up at his brother.

Dean Winters wanted desperately to do just that, to get the hell out of the little church on the hill in Megiddo, Kansas but the look on Sam Winchester's face made it impossible. They would wait until death took the second Winchester brother and he and Sammy would salt and burn both bodies before heading for California. Turning to his brother he said, "Why don't you go on outside and bring in the food. We should probably eat something before we leave."

Over the long months since their parents had died the two boys had learned to eat whenever and whatever they could to stay alive and eating in a church surrounded by stinking corpses, while waiting for a man to bleed out and die, wasn't out of the ordinary anymore.

Young Sam left the church to complete his mission and Dean asked Sam, "You hungry?" but the younger Winchester just shook his head and held up his shattered, useless, broken hands.

"I'll feed you," the boy offered, well used to the pain and suffering of his fellow human beings, but Sam just shook his head again.

He did ask the teen for a one favor. "Will you read the book to me? I'd like to know how it ends."


	4. Chapter 4

"What happened to your hands?" Dean, squatting once more before Sam Winchester, reached out to grasp one of his mutilated appendages.

Sam sucked in his breath before the teen was able to touch him and rasped out urgently, "No don't! Don't touch me...my skin...Don't touch my skin."

Dean stood again, shrugged his shoulders and told him, "Suit yourself, dude," and Sam sighed and swallowed in relief, closing his eyes slowly.

"Is he dead?" Young Sam had returned with both backpacks slung over his knife sharp shoulder blades and dropped them noisily onto the floor.

"Nah, he's just tired. Lost a lot of blood," Dean assured his brother who took it all in stride wishing they could go before it got any darker out.

"Are we stayin' here tonight?" was the next thing the boy wanted to know.

"Good a place as any," Dean told him easily, pointedly ignoring Sam Winchester's look of desperation. Dean guessed correctly that big Sam wanted them gone every bit as much as little Sam did but the teen was in no hurry to brave the night and all the horror it held, Not that things were much better in the muted daylight. "There's probably a kitchen or a wood stove in the back. See if you can find it and check it out," he ordered and pulled a flashlight from his pack and thrust it into his brother's hand, "I'm freakin' sick of cold soup out of a can."

Young Sam nodded quietly and skirting well around Sam Winchester headed to the back of the church.

"You're not afraid to let him go alone?"

"Hell, yeah," Dean said vehemently, "But I gotta toughen him up. I might not always be around."

"He looks pretty…fragile," Sam agreed watching the youngster's skinny form as he walked away, his flashlight beam cutting into the dark. Sam noticed Dean Winters couldn't hide the worried look that crossed his features, the same kind of look he'd seen on his own brother's face…right up until the end.

"I worry plenty about him. He's been through a lot and seeing Charlie get snuffed and the angel on angel battle royal we lived through didn't help any. You saw how he just kinda drifts away sometimes."

Sam gaped and asked incredulously, "An Angel killed Chuck? Do you know who it was?"

Dean looked to his left, checking to see if his brother might be headed back their way, and when he saw they were still alone in the church proper his lip turned up in a sneer and he answered, "Yeah I know, from my mom's books. It was that fat tub of lard Zachariah."

Sam was stunned, his brows collapsing together as his forehead furrowed and asked rhetorically, "Why would Zachariah kill Chuck?"

"Because Charlie was trying to get the book to him," Dean said and pointed at the dead man for which he'd been named, "Zach said he couldn't let it fall into the wrong hands."

"You mean into my hands, Lucifer's hands," Sam corrected him looking down at his now useless fingers.

Dean shook his head, "Zach said that Charlie's book would allow Michael to win and that he couldn't let that happen."

Sam looked thoughtfully at the teenager, "Is that how it ends? Michael wins?"

Dean shook his head again and said quietly, "That's only what I told Sammy to keep him happy. Someone told Charlie not to finish it."

"Did Chu…Charlie say who told him?"

Dean turned his eyes away and looked toward the crucifix hanging on the wall but his gazed passed it by and he looked up at the ceiling instead and toward the heavens above. "Charlie said that the visions he usually got were probably from the angels because the words he heard were like listening to heaven on a soup can with a string," Dean told Sam and the younger Winchester smiled. Dean's face remained stony as he continued. "But that on that particular night he heard everything loud and clear. So loud and clear that his ears started to bleed."

"So the book has no end?"

"Yeah," Dean confirmed dispassionately, "But God says to read it to you anyway...after Sammy goes to sleep."


	5. Chapter 5

Anthem of the Angels

By Carver Edlund

The Greyhound bus pulled into the Detroit station just past midnight. Sam Winchester stepped down from the final step and, pulling his backpack up onto his shoulder, moved away to let the other passengers get off. It was six months since Lucifer had told him he would meet him here and that he would voluntarily surrender his body to him and by doing so, his everlasting soul. Sam didn't know why exactly he had left the relative safety of Sioux Falls and the company of Dean and Bobby however augmentative and downright morose they had all become. Maybe it was to prove to the son of a bitch once and for all that he was barking up the wrong Winchester.

His powers having returned ten fold, Sam knew he was stronger than either Dean or the devil knew or gave him credit for and maybe, like he'd done to Alistair, he could just kill the angel and if that failed maybe he could juice him back to hell. On the other hand, maybe he couldn't do either but he had to try something before the Horsemen obliterated everyone and everything and he ended up saving only his own ass.

The bus ride had been long and uneventful and Sam rolled his shoulders and cracked his neck to loosen up his stiffened joints and muscles. His eyes caught the flickering neon light of a small bar a few blocks from the bus station and he walked toward it and away from the bright lights of the station and the rumble of diesel engines until he stood beneath the glowing sign.

Sam looked up and read "Sweet Surrender" and, when he walked inside, he knew it was the kind of bar his brother would probably like, dark, dank, smelling of cigarettes and the cheap perfume of unenthusiastic pole dancers. A bar where the only questions asked were 'What'll it be' and 'You ready for another?'. A bar where the only question Dean Winchester would ask was 'Do you have enough singles to break a fifty?'.

Sam smiled at the thought and sat down at the bar. Right on cue the bartender, a young, dark haired Hispanic, made his way down the bar to stand in front of him and asked, "What'll you have?"

"A Bud, bottle," Sam said straightening up to reach into his jeans pocket.

The bartender held up a hand. "The girls have all gone…home…so it's on the house."

Sam relaxed and waited while the man pulled a cold one from the cooler and, twisting the top off, slid the bottle to him.

"Thanks…" Sam paused waiting for the man to offer up his name.

"Jesus," the bartender said tucking his long, dark hair behind his ears and when Sam quirked an eyebrow he laughed. "We are all named Jesus… or Angel...especially now," he explained pronouncing the words 'Heasoos' and 'Ahnhell".

Sam snorted a laugh and nodded then tilted the bottle back to let the cold, biting liquid slide down his parched throat. Setting the bottle back down on the bar he turned to look around. The wall clock read just past midnight but place was deserted. "Pretty dead for a Friday night" he commented, not sure whether the emptiness of the room made him feel safe or vulnerable.

Shrugging, Jesus picked up a rag and began wiping up the condensation left by Sam's bottle and told him, "Business has been bad since the flu pandemic…and the demons."

"Demons?"

"The place is crawling with them," Jesus said and the young hunter reflexively turned around, his hand on the butt of the 9mm in his jacket pocket. Jesus stopped wiping and looked at his only customer and continued with a smile, "I mean Detroit. Almost everyone else has left the city."

Sam finished his beer and wondered suspiciously why, if things were so bad, the bartender was still there and he offered lamely, "Hopefully, things will get better."

But knowing Sam's plan was a long shot at best, Jesus just smiled again and assured him, "Trust me, things will only get worse...unless you do as my Father asks." When he finished the sign outside the bar exploded and the outer door slammed shut.

Sam closed his eyes and swallowed the lump in his throat. He'd walked straight into a trap but when he opened his eyes again no demons waited to jump him. There was only Jesus holding out another beer. "You can tell Lucifer to go pound sand up his ass," Sam said angrily and accepted the proffered beer and took a long pull.

"Lucifer is not my father," Jesus explained calmly and waited for Sam's reaction. He was thoroughly shocked when the younger Winchester rose up and lunged, grabbed him by the shirtfront and practically pulled him across the bar.

"Don't you people get it?" Sam bellowed in exasperation into Jesus' stunned face, "God isn't here!" and pushed the bartender back behind the bar. He sat back down heavily on his bar stool and picked up his beer again.

Jesus straightened his shirt and replied calmly, "My Father is here, has always been here."

Sam just stared at the obvious vessel standing before him and asked hotly, "If he's here… and that's a big if…then why doesn't he do something?"

"What would you have him do?"

"Kill Lucifer for one," Sam said stating the obvious.

"He can't," Jesus explained and when Sam's lip curled in disgust he quickly added, "My Father can no more kill his heavenly creations than his earthly ones."

"He can't or he won't?" Sam demanded.

It was a moot point to Jesus. "Does it matter?" the young man asked wiping the bar top again with the wet rag, "There is only one who can kill Lucifer."

"Michael," Sam said with finality.

The counterman nodded and added, "And Michael can only kill Lucifer if your brother asks for his help."

"And we both know Dean isn't gonna do it."

"But he will…if you give him no choice." Suddenly Jesus was standing behind Sam and, reaching out, he placed a hand on the hunter's shoulder and a feeling Sam could only describe as peace started to flow through him.

Twisting suddenly Sam threw off the hand and stood up facing the bartender, towering over his short frame. "There's nothing I can do that will make Dean change his mind," Sam stated emphatically reaching for his backpack, "Nothing!"

"But there is," Jesus said in a soft voice, "You can betray him one last time."

The words sliced through him each time he was reminded of his disloyalty to his brother and this was no exception. Sam took a deep breath and tried to compose his thoughts again. "Betray him by asking Lucifer to use me," he said slipping his arm through the strap on his bag.

"Dean knows what will happen if you say yes to Lucifer and he denies Michael. Billions of deaths, all laid at his feet."

Sam knew it to be true just as he knew Lucifer would eventually kill his brother. "What if I…what if Lucifer wins?'

"Then all is lost," Jesus stated dispassionately but then asked, "But what if Michael prevails?"

Sam let the backpack slip back down on the bar stool, "Then, to me, it would be worth the sacrifice."

"You'd give yourself to the devil to save humanity, to save the world?"

"No," Sam said with great conviction and finality, "I'd give myself to the devil to save my brother."

Jesus laughed derisively and reminded Sam, "Even if Michael wins it will be a miracle if your brother survives as the Archangel's vessel...just as you will most likely not survive Lucifer."

Sam sat back down in his seat, his back to the bar, his shoulders slumped, his head bowed and Jesus was content to let him be. There was no need to prod the young man sitting before him anymore, no need to coerce him further because Sam Winchester was truly a man of faith and, hearing his thoughts, Jesus knew Sam was ready to take the final leap of that same faith.

"Then I'll do it," Sam replied and added emphatically, "But I need God to protect Dean. I need that miracle. My brother has to survive."

Jesus knew that it was useless to bargain with God. Even he had briefly lost his faith in the Almighty, his father, but now he prayed that as the young hunter headed down his chosen path, surrendering his body to Lucifer but leaving his faith in God's hands, that faith alone would be enough for Sam Winchester.


	6. Chapter 6

"Where is he, Bobby? It was the third time Dean had asked the older hunter and it was the third time Bobby Singer had rolled away from him. "I know you know where he went," Dean insisted, his voice clipped with frustrated anger, mixed with worry and dread.

Oh, he knew all right. Bobby just didn't want to tell him. Bobby wasn't afraid; he was okay with being the messenger. In his heart of hearts, after all that had happened, after Jo and Ellen, he wouldn't have cared if things reverted back to ancient times when the messenger was killed for simply delivering bad tidings because right about now he'd rather be dead than see the look on Dean's face when he told him.

Dean had maneuvered Bobby's chair and the man himself into a corner with no avenue of escape and leaning over he grabbed both wheels and looking him straight in the eyes asked him, "Is he in Detroit?"

Bobby's face remained angry but his eyes gave it all away and Dean straightened up, a contemplative look on his haggard features. Now that he knew where Sam was he just needed to know why. Why had his brother sneaked out in the middle of the night and gone to the last place on earth Dean should have ever had to look for him? "Did he tell you why?"

The questions was posed calmly, Dean's voice devoid of any emotion but Bobby knew passive aggression when he heard it, could see the seething anger in the boy's body language as he tried to not go ballistic.

"He didn't say why…just that I shouldn't tell you anything when you got back."

Dean's calm façade broke into a million pieces. "And you thought it was okay to just let him go?" he shouted backing away, giving himself room, giving Bobby a chance to respond.

Now there was the Dean Bobby knew and loved and spreading his hands to encompass his dead, useless legs he asked, "And just how was I gonna stop him?"

For six months, through days and nights of hell, lamenting failures and mourning deaths, Bobby had watched as Dean Winchester, against his better judgment, against ever fiber in his being, had gone on blindly treating his brother as an equal, as someone he could trust, someone he could rely on and now all the 'crows' had come home to roost bringing with them portents of disaster, of doom.

Maybe it took someone who wasn't hamstrung by an impossible to keep promise to a dead father to really see who or what Sam Winchester had really become. Bobby could see it and sometimes late at night, in the witching hour when the world really did look its darkest, Bobby had to fight the urge to kill Sam Winchester himself.

Dean scrubbed his hand around the back of his neck, squeezing his knotted muscles and sighed in exasperation. Then looking down to the upturned face staring at him, he said simply, "You could have killed him."

Bobby grabbed the wheels of his chair and shoved it forward forcefully; knocking into Dean, extricating himself from the corner the boy had backed him into, figuratively and literally. "You are not gonna Goddamn put this on me!" Bobby said hotly, spinning around, clipping the edge of a coffee table, dumping a pile of books onto the floor. He leaned over and reached out to pick one up but was unable to snag it and he just sat, his chest heaving. His face was a blank, his eyes unseeing as his utter helplessness to perform even the simplest of tasks crashed down on him yet again.

Dean squatted to pick up the books and, seeing his friend's distress, placed his hand on Bobby's unfeeling leg and squeezed, a gesture not felt by the veteran hunter but not lost on him either. "I know," Dean started then lost the words. The young hunter looked back up at Bobby, his face twisted, his eyes anguished as he tried to put voice to his thoughts. "My dad's dying words to me were to try and save Sammy, but if I couldn't," he said, his voice tired, resigned, weighted with a ton of regrets, "he made me promise to kill him."

Bobby knew the story, knew it well, and knew that the death bed promise had been the pièce de résistance, the crowning glory of John Winchester's grand plan to not only someday save the world but, in the interim, to totally and unequivocally fuck up his eldest son. It had taken years, years of torture and torment, years of lies and betrayal, of pain and suffering, of guilt and the broken promise had come full circle.

But the stakes were much higher now. What hung in the balance was not just the life of an irredeemable child nor the love and companionship of a much beloved brother but humanity itself and Dean Winchester knew what he had to do, what he should have done a long, long time ago. Keep the promised he'd made to his father.


	7. Chapter 7

"Welcome, Sam," Lucifer said looking down at the young hunter from his place in the church's pulpit, "You're just in time for the Pierogi Fest." The voice that had once seemed so earnest, so persuasive now only seemed oily, like a used car salesman's, coming from the man dressed in a modest priest's gold and white vestments.

"Kind of low key for you, isn't it?" Sam asked pointing to the flowing robes, "I thought you'd at least be Pope by now."

Lucifer looked down at his garments and smiled, a shark's smile when coupled with his pale, cold eyes. "I'm just the simple rector of Sweetest Heart of Mary Catholic Church," he replied raising his arm in an arc to encompass the bustling church laid out before him, "I chose it in honor of your mother. She did so much…for the cause."

Sam's lips thinned with anger and he felt the first stirrings of his power coming to life.

Cocking his head Lucifer stared hard as if trying to see inside of him and a smile of wonderment replaced the shark's grin. "Extraordinary," he whispered breathing in as if to inhale Sam's power.

The hunter took a few steps back from the altar and bumped into a rotund, black clad, gray haired babcia carrying a covered dish and when he begged her pardon, her eyes blackened to match her garments and she told him to go fuck himself.

"Krystyna!" the priest chided, his voice quiet, yet firm.

The Polish mother's eyes returned to their original brown color and she shuffled off to join the others in the courtyard preparing for the festival honoring the 'boiled or baked dumplings of unleavened dough stuffed with varying ingredients'.

"Krystyna, huh?" Sam commented the name not lost on him, "Follower of Christ."

Lucifer shrugged his shoulders, stepped down from the altar to face Sam and replied, "These people cling to their religion and to their old country recipes. Have you sampled the pierogi yet?"

Instinctively stepping back again from the Fallen Angel who wore a mourning man's mottled, rotting skin Sam watched as Lucifer's smile slipped. "And you Sam Winchester, are you still a follower of your misguided brother? Has he sent you here to smite me?"

Sam's chin jutted out defiantly and he said firmly, "No!"

"If Dean didn't order it then why have you come to me?"

Lucifer's question was patronizing and Sam rose to the bait, his anger rising again. "Actually, Jesus told me to find you," he replied pronouncing it Heasoos.

"Don't you mean Jesus? Swarthy guy, long dark hair, tends bar over on Howard Street?" Sam's pupil dilated slightly and Lucifer laughed, "Oh, Sam, he isn't Mexican, he's an Israelite." Looking back over his shoulder at the crucifix hung above the alter the priest made a tisking noise with his tongue and added, "Seems our bartending friend learned a thing or two from Judas Iscariot," and Sam wondered briefly if he had been betrayed.

Shoving Lucifer's disquieting words from his mind the stench of rotting flesh wafted from the vessel formerly known as Nick and they both knew that time was of the essence but, as hell bent and heaven bound as Sam was to offer himself up in exchange for his brother's life, the thought of suicide by fallen angel scared the hell out of him, paralyzing his vocal cords.

Feeling Sam's fear Lucifer said gently, "It only hurts for a moment."

Sam stood still, rooted to the spot and as Lucifer watched his breathing became almost a pant and the Devil thought his true vessel's heart might explode leaving him with no hope of defeating Michael and suddenly he was afraid. Afraid that all of the deaths, all of the pain and suffering he'd afflicted on the world, albeit so much fun and so rewarding, would all be for naught. Not to mention the eons he'd spent in the bowels of hell and before the young hunter could bolt the Devil said the magic words, "I promise I'll spare Dean. Let him live out a happy, productive life."

Sam heard the lies and knew Lucifer would go after Dean as soon as his surrender was complete and he stepped back even further from the false priest ready to run yet again...until he felt another hand on his shoulder.

Lucifer remained standing where he was, a look of dismay on his face at Sam's reluctance, so whoever or whatever stood behind him was unseen by the fallen. Glancing down to his shoulder where the strong, painfully clasping fingers should have been Sam saw nothing either but he definitely felt something. He felt a searing heat and in that heat he felt the strength and fierceness of a warrior with absolutely no fear of death or of loosing the battle. As suddenly as the hand had manifested it was gone but Sam knew Michael was still nearby and suddenly he had no fear of death or of loosing either even as Lucifer spoke.

"You know in your heart how this is going to end. Humanity struggling valiantly only to be obliterated in the end while you and your brother watch from the sidelines," Lucifer said slickly, "Not the legacy your father would have wanted his sons to leave, is it."

The priest drew closer and this time Sam stood his ground, his head tilted defiantly, his eyes cold as he listened to the offer.

"A moment of pain in exchange for Dean's life. What do you say, Sammy?"

Sam drew in a deep breath and nodding his head said, "Yes," and Lucifer reached out to cup Sam's cheek almost lovingly.

It was as painful as Lucifer had promised and pain was the last thing Sam Winchester felt, just as the lifeless body of a once grieving husband and father sprawled out dead the floor of the church was the last thing he saw. And as his consciousness faded into the darkness that was the Fallen Angel and his free will became a thing of the past Sam Winchester knew only one thing. He knew his brother would eventually let Michael in and when he finally did all hell would break loose.


	8. Chapter 8

"Welcome, Dean," Lucifer said as he stood in the church courtyard surrounded by tables of delectable Polish delicacies made by the many descendants of the original immigrants who had built Sweetest Heart of Mary Catholic Church at the turn of the century, "You're just in time for the Pierogi Fest."

Dean Winchester looked at his brother dressed in the vestments of a priest and with tendrils of uncertainty and fear snaking through his gut asked guardedly, his mouth set in a grim line, "What in the hell are you doing, Sam?"

No familiar and loving 'Sammy'. Just a curt and suspicious 'What in the hell are you doing, Sam?' and Lucifer knew that the familial and moral fiber that held the brothers bound so tightly had started to fray, the first of the battles begun and he smiled.

Sam's lips turned up in a parody of a smile, a smirk of self satisfaction on the familiar features of the younger Winchester and the tendrils gripped Dean even tighter, raising his heart rate and respiration, a sheen of sweat breaking out on his forehead.

"I'm simply tending my flock," Lucifer replied stretching Sam's arms wide like a puppet master encompassing the faithful now crowding around them and with the soft, almost hypnotic delivery of the words, Dean knew unequivocally that he was too late.

Turning to survey the crowd, ever growing, ever surging but content in their demonic fervor to leave a clear and distinct circle around them both, Dean saw eyes of yellow, red, white and the deepest black turned to his brother, the vacant look of blind adoration on the faces of every man, woman and child surrounding them.

And if the soullessness of their faces weren't enough, a mantel of what Dean could only describe as pure evil settled over his broad shoulders making it impossible for him to move away and quickly threatened to crush him. His arms hung useless at his sides unable to draw the colt from its makeshift holster in the waistband of his jeans. His boots were suddenly made of lead and the smile on his brother's face was nothing less than that of a jackal in priest's clothing. "You don't want to do this, Sammy," Dean challenged and his brother snickered.

"Yes, I do, Dean," Sam said inhaling deeply, "More than anything in this world."

The pressure became intense, buckling his legs and Dean went down on his knees in front of his brother. "Is this what you want, Sammy?" Dean asked between gasps for air, "Me on my knees?"

Sam's smile grew wide and became genuine; his eyes sparkled as he looked down on his brother. It was exactly where he wanted him, bowed down before him, weak and impotent and above all subservient. "I've always been the stronger one, had the balls to do what you couldn't…" Sam ground out.

"Yeah, like let a demon put a ring through your nose and lead you down the road to damnation," Dean said and watched as Sam's head quirked at an angle, like a dog hearing a sound, or a demon feeling a barb.

"At least she was there for me," Lucifer replied taking the words out of Sam's mouth and twisting them, shoving them deep into Dean like sharp knives.

"I was always there for you," Dean croaked out then breathed in with great difficulty and whispered, "Sammy, I went to hell for you."

His brother simply laughed. "Think back, brother," the last word dripped off of Sam's tongue like venom from a snake's tongue and then the voice changed to Dean's own tearful words, "I always tried to protect you...Keep you safe...Dad didn't even need to tell me. It was just always my responsibility, you know? It's like I had one job... I had one job…and I screwed it up. I blew it. And for that, I'm sorry. I guess that's what I do. I let down the people I love. I let Dad down. And now I guess I'm just supposed to let you down, too. How can I? How am I supposed to live with that. What am I supposed to do? Sammy. God What am I supposed to do? What am I supposed to do?"

Even before his own words had come back to haunt him tears had begun to slip down Dean's cheeks and the loss of his brother became only too apparent with Sam's next words.

"I always tried to protect you…I had one job…I screwed it up…I blew it…I let down the people I love…I,I,I," Lucifer spat out and a sneer twisted Sam's lips, "You didn't go to hell for Sam, Dean…you went for yourself!"

Dean sat back on his heels and lifted his eyes to the heavens afraid of what Lucifer would say next because deep down he knew it was true. He was a coward. He had taken the easy way out rather than live with his failures. He had committed suicide by demon.

"It was a chicken shit thing to do," Sam's voice told him now, "but you never saw it that way. You saw it as a righteous man performing a righteous deed and we all know what happens to a righteous man in hell…he breaks and puts it all into motion."

Sam was right and the weight of what he had always known to be the truth crashed down on him and, feeling the vertebra in his back begin to snap, he flopped backward onto the ground. Faces gathered in close to peer down at him as guilt, an emotion foreign to them all, took a physical toll on the human, breaking more bones, puncturing veins and arteries, blood weeping from his eyes and pouring from his nose, pooling in his mouth to choke him.

Pushing the fluid from his mouth with his tongue, his mind numb with the pain, Dean whispered past bloodied lips, "God, please help me," and suddenly he was down by the bus station standing in front of a bar.

"Sweet Surrender," Dean said aloud looking up at the newly repaired but still sputtering neon sign, a mirthless chuckle following his words. Confused but thankful for his timely removal from the courtyard of the church he walked inside the dark public house, his body still trembling with the aftereffects of his frightening and painful meeting with his brother and, voice quavering, he stated the obvious, "Jesus, I could use a drink."

"Comin' right up," Jesus said indicating a seat at the bar a few stools down from where a brawny young man dressed in digital desert camo sat hunched over the bar then added, "And it's pronounced 'Heasoos'.

Smiling, Dean pointed to the soldier who held a nearly empty bottle of Pabst Blue Ribbon beer and said, "I'll have whatever he's having…with a double Johnnie Walker Blue back."

Jesus smiled accommodatingly and pulled a black box down from the top shelf and opening it produced an unopened bottle of the $200.00 premium blend scotch from inside. Pouring Dean a generous measure Jesus set the glass down before him next to a freshly opened Pabst.

Ignoring the beer Dean picked up the glass and took a swallow of the smooth liquor and smiling, sighed, "Nothing better than twenty year old scotch that comes in its own little coffin."

"Except maybe for a twenty year old blonde who comes in a four-speed, triple-black 1968 Charger R/T," the soldier ventured, his eyes watching the newcomer in the mirrored back bar.

Turning to the man Dean smiled and added, "With a 426 Hemi."

"You know it, brother," the soldier replied lifting his bottle in a salute to the hunter.

"Bartender, a beer for America's bravest," Dean said saluting the soldier with his glass.

The soldier pushed his empty forward on the bar and nodded his appreciation.

"You on furlough?" Dean asked wondering what had brought the young man to the deserted bar on Howard Street.

"Emergency leave. I came to town to see my brother," the soldier said morosely his shoulders slumping even further as if his despair had tangible weight, "But I was too late."

"Demon, huh?"

The combatant's eyes narrowed in suspicion and he turned his head in Dean's direction again and replied, "Somethin' like that."

"I came here to see my brother, too," Dean volunteered tilting his glass back letting the remainder of smooth, hopefully mind numbing amber liquid slide down his throat.

"Demon?" the soldier asked then tilted his fresh beer back to take a long swallow.

"Something like that," Dean acknowledged with a clipped snort.

"I haven't seen my brother since before I shipped out," the soldier offered, "He was always a pain in my backside even when we were young but nothing like this. All the lying and the drugs and the women. I feel as if he's betrayed me at every turn."

"Join the club," Dean said and, motioning for a refill, added, "Only I usually had all the women."

Jesus refilled Dean's glass and slid it forward into the hunter's waiting hand while the soldier set his beer down on the bar and, wiping his hand dry, offered it to Dean, "Name's Mike D'Angelo."

"Dean Winchester," Dean said extending his hand trying not to wince at the pressure of the soldier's overly firm grip, "Iraq?"

"Afghanistan…for all the good it's gonna do," Mike retorted hotly, "The enemy is right here in our own backyard but the brass just look the other way. You'd think they'd want to stop…all of this." Mike pointed to the television set perched in the corner, the local newscast showing much of Detroit in flames and added, "Seems like every night's Devil's night."

"So, your brother," Dean started cautiously, "he have anything to do with 'all of this'?"

The soldier, his elbows on the bar, leaned over closer to Dean and said softly, "Yes...as does yours," and Dean began to laugh.

So here he was Dean thought. Not with a bolt of lightening and a crash of thunder but waiting patiently in a bar with a beer in his hand. "You've got a vessel," Dean pointed out taking in the ripped, muscular, obviously well trained soldier sitting in front of him, "So why don't you just go and smite the son of a bitch."

Opening the camo shirt wide Dean could see the bright red of the blood that still seeped through the fissures in the soldier's skin, the result of vain attempts to keep the Archangel's power contained and, although the answer was still no, Dean was curious. "What makes you so sure I won't bust a gut, too?"

The answer was simple. "Because you have been reborn, your mind and body newly forged in the very fires of hell," Michael told him.

"So there's a chance I could come through this alive?"

Michael closed up the soldier's bloody shirt and picked up his beer again and told Dean in a flat voice devoid of any emotion…or duplicity, "I won't lie to you, you probably won't survive."

"An angel who doesn't lie? That's pretty damned hard for me to believe," Dean snarked and he began to feel the heat of the power leaking from the vessel sitting two stools away from him as Michael's ire started to rise. Trying to placate him Dean said, "Okay, okay, I believe you." Taking another drink of the scotch Dean then asked, "If my chances of survival are zero to none, than what's in this for me?"

Michael's radiance began to surge even stronger, his brilliance threatening to break free of the vessel that now barely contained him and with a terrible voice, the likes of which Dean had never heard before, the Archangel said, "Redemption. The chance to do what is right, to stop what you and your brother have wrought."

And as the Pierogi festival continued and the fires of hell threatened to engulf all of Detroit, Lucifer nodded in satisfaction, the familiar jackal's smile returning to Sam Winchester's otherwise placid features. "My, my, my," he said, "Dean Winchester has finally taken the bait."


	9. Chapter 9

Dean Winters stuck his finger in the manuscript and closed it. He looked up at Sam Winchester to get his reaction.

"So that was it? A couple of beers and Dean lets Michael waltz right in?" Sam huffed a little breath of a laugh and laid his head back against the wall.

"I think your brother did what he thought was right," young Dean supposed.

"Yeah, didn't we all?" Sam asked rhetorically. Sam had let Lucifer in because he'd thought that, at best, Michael was the stronger of the two and that if, against all odds, the Archangel lost at least Dean would be saved. But he'd been wrong on all counts, had been wrong on everything he had thought and done for a long, long time and now, his hands shattered, he was helpless to finish what Dean and Michael had started.

Dean Winters looked over his shoulder to check on his sleeping brother and sighed as he watched the youngster's face run a gamut of emotions even while asleep. "How come you guys never listen to anybody?" he asked, his concern for his brother turning his compassion for the hunter to condemnation, "Neither one of you listened and now my brother pees his bed again."

His forehead furrowing Sam didn't have an answer. If he had listened to Dean instead of Ruby the apocalypse would never have begun. Better yet, if Dean had listened to Dad and killed him his brother's breaking of the first seal would never have been an issue, not to mention his time in hell. "Listen, I'm sorry about the deal with Ruby and…" Sam started.

Dean just huffed and concluded, "You really are douche bags, aren't you?"

"Excuse me?"

"You, your brother, Michael and Lucifer, a four-pack of Summer's Eve," Dean added shaking his head. He picked up the manuscript again and flipped through most of the remaining sheets of paper that comprised Chuck's book. They both knew everything that had happened since Detroit and Dean Winters didn't want to relive it any more than Sam Winchester did.

Anthem of the Angels

By Carver Edlund

Chapter 10

Lucifer looked around at the throngs of demons surrounding St. Michael's church in the flyspeck of a town's graveyard. All of them jostled for a ringside pew to watch the angelic smack-down of the ages. In this corner at 6 foot one, weighing in at 180 pounds and wearing Dean Winchester...Saint Michael the Archangel, prince of light, the Viceroy of Heaven, the angel of mercy. And in the opposite corner at 6 feet, 4 inches, weighing in at 190 pounds and wearing Sam Winchester...Lucifer, the prince of darkness, the Morning Star, the fallen angel.

Dressed in jeans, a god-awful plaid shirt and a jacket Lucifer walked up the steps of the church and turned to address his followers, his fans, but before he could open his mouth one disciple at the rear of the pack screamed and the demon inside of a Detroit stripper sputtered, burned and died as the host slumped to the ground equally as dead. On it went, demon after demon lighting up the sky until it was just the two of them surrounded by hundreds of corpses and only a handful of wild-eyed believers.

Michael, similarly dressed in jeans, his brown leather jacket covering a dark green tee shirt, looked at the small group of worshipers and snarled out two words, "Bury them," then turned his attention to his brother and said from his spot at the foot of the wooden steps, "So this is it. This is where it all ends."

Shrugging his shoulders Lucifer simply smiled and replied, "I guess so."

"You can stop this now," Michael said walking up the steps, his voice flat as if halting the fight had no real interest for him.

"By giving myself up and returning to my prison?" Lucifer asked leaning in close to his adversary and squinting as if trying to read Michael's very thoughts, "Never again."

"No, brother. You can return to your place at the foot of God's throne," Michael told him with forced civility. The Archangel wanted no part in delivering God's ultimatum for fear he would choke on the very words.

"After all I've done?" Lucifer asked slyly, a smirk on Sam Winchester's lips.

"Yes. You only have to do one thing."

"So there is a catch. There's always a catch."

Michael rolled Dean's eyes and tiny dimples of annoyance pitted his face at the corner of his pursed lips. "Not a catch but a simple request," he replied, anger and disgust rolling off of him in waves, "Our Father asks only that you forgive him."

Lucifer took a step back away from the Archangel and turned away before he could see the utter look of shock on his face before it gave way to a snarl and a lip curled with contempt. He had God right where he wanted him and apparently Michael, too, when he heard him take in a deep breath and say, "I ask your forgiveness as well."

Turning back Lucifer smiled chillingly. "Another county heard from. How about your vessel? Does he ask for Sam's forgiveness as well?"

Not hesitating Michael shook his head and replied, "Dean's betrayal is too new, still too painful. His anger will fuel me if your answer is no."

"Well, then be prepared to be royally pissed off, brother, because I did nothing wrong! I refused to bow down before His creation, to put man before God Himself. I refused to serve mankind because I knew what would become of them. Creatures forged in God's likeness but with a free will, a will with which they disregard his commandments and defile each other and his other creations."

"Not all of them are evil…" Michael began but Lucifer glared at him.

"There were enough for me to raise an arm of darkness with just the snap of my fingers." Lucifer held up his hand and snapped his fingers and the moment he did the remaining demons put down their shovels and rushed the Archangel.

Michael threw them off like so many insects and unable to reign in his terrible power he killed them instantly in the process.

"My point exactly. God gave these humans free will and instead of worshiping him billions worship me in one way or another. I asked you to stand by me and destroy these abominations but you refused me and, even after all these eons cast out of heaven to rule in hell, your betrayal is still fresh in my mind, my pain still too raw so I will deny you and say what you said to me when I begged you to stand by me. Go...to...hell"

Dean's face remained passive and Michael shrugged his shoulders. "Then I'll see you inside," he said simply, "I need to prepare."

Lucifer followed his brother into the church proper and watched as the Archangel knelt before the altar and bowed his head. He began to recite Psalm 91 for Dean Winchester, for the hunter, for his vessel.

"He who dwells in the shelter of the Most High will rest in the shadow of the Almighty.

I will say of the Lord, "He is my refuge and my fortress, my God, in whom I trust."

Surely he will save you from the fowler's snare and from the deadly pestilence.

He will cover you with his feathers and under his wings you will find refuge; his faithfulness will be your shield and rampart.

You will not fear the terror of night, nor the arrow that flies by day, nor the pestilence that stalks in the darkness, nor the plague that destroys at midday.

A thousand may fall at your side, ten thousand at your right hand, but it will not come near you.

You will only observe with your eyes and see the punishment of the wicked.

If you make the Most High your dwelling, even the Lord, who is my refuge, then no harm will befall you; no disaster will come near your tent.

For he will command his angels concerning you to guard you in all your ways; they will lift you up in their hands so that you will not strike your foot against a stone.

You will tread upon the lion and the cobra; you will trample the great lion and the serpent.

"Because he loves me," says the Lord, "I will rescue him; I will protect him, for he acknowledges my name.

He will call upon me, and I will answer him; I will be with him in trouble, I will deliver him and honor him.

With long life will I satisfy him and show him my salvation."

Before the Archangel could say 'Amen' Lucifer's sword struck him a crippling blow.


	10. Chapter 10

Dean Winters stopped reading. The remainder of the chapter turned his stomach and he stared hard at Sam Winchester. "You are one cold blooded son of a bitch, aren't you?"

Even though Lucifer had wielded the sword Sam's gaze lowered. He was heartsick that he'd been unable to stop his own hands as they plunged Lucifer's sword effortlessly into his brother's body just as he was now unable to look the boy in the eyes. He offered up lamely, "It wasn't my fault. I couldn't stop it."

A surge of anger passed through the teen and he spat out, "Nothing's ever your fault, not breaking the final seal, not even welcoming the devil in with open arms."

"I thought Michael and Dean would be able to defeat him...me," Sam reasoned never once having taken into consideration that Lucifer would not play by the rules. That the devil would live up to his name and reputation and cut down the Archangel as he prayed for his vessel's safety even after giving his word to Sam that he would let Dean live.

"Maybe in a fair fight...but "the Devil made me do it"," Dean chided in a pissy, sing song voice.

Sam's face twisted with rage and Dean Winters found himself backing away from the hunter but his pain and frustration brought him back to stoop before him again.

"Why couldn't you just do what he asked?" Dean asked point blank, "Why couldn't you and Lucifer just forgive them? All of this could have been over."

"Do you really think the Prince of Light believed that casting a disobedient angel into hell was wrong? That it was a transgression needing forgiveness?" Lucifer had Sam ask.

"I think he was the only son of a bitching angel who didn't lie and I think hell's too good for Satan," Dean said and stood up ready to return to where his brother still slept fitfully.

"I said I was sorry a thousand times but it never seemed to make a real difference," Sam said plaintively and the boy just glared down at him.

"Dean didn't want your lame assed apologies," he spit out, "All junkies make apologies they don't mean. All you had to do was forgive him, forgive your own brother and you didn't have the balls."

"But Dean didn't do anything wrong. I fucked everything up."

Dean Winters looked at Sam through squinted eyes and repeated a line he'd heard his mother only whisper. "And it is written that the first seal shall be broken when a righteous man sheds blood in hell. As he breaks so shall it break."

Sam, dumbfounded, stared at the teen until tears filled his eyes and the salty droplets fell onto his brother's cradled ashen face.

Young Dean turned, kicked the manuscript out of the way and returned to sit down in the pew next to his brother's head. He reached down and gently touched the boy's flushed cheek and sighed wearily. It would have been so easy to stop the apocalypse but evidently neither man nor angel had the capacity to forgive.

With Michael and Dean Winchester dead and Sam Winchester most likely to follow soon, Dean Winters knew it was only a matter of time before Lucifer, wherever the fuck he was now, would trick some other dick into saying yes and the ass-reaming of humanity would continue unabated.

But the boy didn't care anymore. He'd done his best to get the book to Dean Winchester in time but his best just wasn't good enough. He didn't give a rat's ass about that either at that point. He had one responsibility now and one only, his brother, and he turned and spoke softly to the sleeping boy. "Sammy, I promise that if I ever get so caught up in my own bullshit that I forget for one second that you're my brother, I'll let you kick my ass...and I'll do it with a smile on my face," he vowed and the meager lights in the church began to pop and shatter.

"Its okay, Sammy," Dean said clutching his brother's shoulder when the younger boy awoke with a start and sat up with a cry, disorientated and fearful, "You sit tight here."

Lucifer's anger grew as he watched the teenager pick up a flashlight and walk back to stand in front of them again. So cocky, so self confident, Lucifer thought. Even with so much pain and guilt for one so young and with so much in the world to be afraid of. So much like Dean Winchester, the bane of his wretched existence for so many years. So much like Michael. Lucifer's anger flowed unchecked from Sam and the force of it knocked the crucified Christ figure from the wall above the altar and it broke into pieces when it hit the floor.

"He's still here, isn't he? Near the church? .In the church?" the teen asked cautiously shining the flashlight into Sam's face as he walked slowly back and forth around his periphery. Close but not too close.

Just a little closer, Lucifer thought, and Sam blocked the light shining in his eyes with a crippled hand and tried to force the entity inside of him back, to control it, "Yeah, he's still here."

Dean stopped circling and cocked his head and stared intently at the younger Winchester.

"He's wearing you like two week old underwear, isn't he?" the teen deduced rightly, "And it stinks."

The wounded man's smile slowly turned feral and Sam Winchester began to fade away as Lucifer's light starting to shine through the wounds on his skin.

Young Sam came over to stand beside his brother and pleaded sadly to the man he believed could still help them, save them, "Don't go, Mr. Winchester. We need you."

The horrible light dimmed a little but Sam could only cough, his lungs now choked with fluid, his breathing labored. "I'm still here," Sam assured his namesake. The boy sighed in relief but the hunter knew there wasn't much time left. "You know that black Chevy Impala parked outside the church?" Sam wheezed and squeezed his eyes shut momentarily as he tried to clear his vision.

Both boys nodded and he continued, "Good. There's a gun in the back…"

"The Colt!" young Sam said excitedly while his brother just shook his head.

He knew it was useless and he reminded both Sams, "It can't kill him."

"It might...with the right ammunition," Sam told them, his eyes momentarily flicking to the floor in front of him, to the remnants of the mighty battle that had been fought all those days before. The battle in which Dean and Michael had fought valiantly despite being gravely wounded. A battle that had broken the very swords forged in the fires of heaven and hell into glittering pieces.

Sam Winchester barley managed to get the words out before he was consumed with a bout of coughing but young Dean gave a barely perceptive nod.

He understood what he needed to do and hoped the stuff he needed was in the Impala. He squatted down in front of his little brother. "I'm gonna get the Colt from the car, Sammy," he said pressing the flashlight and a loaded 1911 into the young boy's hands, "Stay away from these suckers and if either of them starts to move at all, I want you to empty the clip into them."

"But he's dead," Sammy said pointing the muzzle of the gun at Dean Winchester.

"Just do it," was all the teen said as he stooped to pick up his backpack and another flashlight and headed out of the church.


	11. Chapter 11

Dean Winters walked quickly to the Impala, the beam of his flashlight bouncing off the dusty, mud covered surface that made the car look almost ghostly in the darkness. The car was so badly neglected that he could only imagine how rough the past few weeks must have been for Dean Winchester to have such wanton disregard for the classic car. Dean Winchester's baby may have taken a beating but inside the trunk and the car itself it was a treasure trove and, after rummaging for a little under a half an hour, Dean had found everything he needed.

There was a propane camp stove, a Coleman lamp, various pots and utensils in the back seat. Scraps of tin foil containing petrified cheeseburger remains in both the front and back seats, a beeswax candle, more than likely used for casting spells, that had rolled under the front seat, along with a plethora of tee shirts stuffed into a laundry bag.

Inside the trunk, along with an arsenal of weapons that included the Colt, he found a metal ammunition box containing an old single cavity bullet mold with wooden handles, a couple boxes of brass .45 bullet casings that were fully primed, a hand press and powder kit and a can of gun powder.

Grabbing the gun, the stove and the other items Dean trudged back to the church and, lighting the lamp, the boy set up his make shift campsite just outside the front door. Before going to work he walked back into the church to check on his brother once more. Finding him safe he squatted down in front of Sam Winchester again. When the hunter closed his eyes the teen picked up and surreptitiously pocketed something before ordering his brother to a safer distance half way between the door and the wounded man.

On the porch Dean checked out the bullet mold. It was in good shape and coated in a thin layer of oil that the teen wiped off with one of Dean Winchester's favorite shirts. Turning the mold over he then 'smoked' it by lighting and playing matches along the inside until the hollow was covered with a layer of soot. He then tied one of the shirts over his face to protect his nose and mouth from fumes and fired up the stove on which he set a small cast iron pot. He then dropped the handful of the glittering metal that he had taken from the floor of the church.

Much denser than lead the metal had an unnatural heat to it that Dean hoped would allow it to melt. To his relief, the shiny metal melted down to a liquid with a quicksilver radiance. Dropping a pea size lump of the beeswax into the pot Dean cursed as a splatter of the molten metal hit the top of his hand, burning him, but he continued to stir the pot, scraping the sides to mix in the wax thoroughly.

When the angelic metal was completely melted Dean searched for any impurities or dirt that may have floated to the top. There was nothing but the unearthly shine and using the ladle he transferred the mixture into the mold. He didn't allow the requisite small puddle to form at the top of the mold because he simply didn't know if the metal would be malleable enough to reshape.

Laying another of the shirts on the ground Dean held the mold a couple of inches above it and gently tapped the mold at the hinges with the back of the ladle until the first of his bullets dropped onto the soft surface reflecting brightly in the glow of the lantern. Dean had enough metal to cast six bullets in .45 caliber, hopefully more than enough to do the job, an assignment he never wanted but which fate had now led him to.

Inspecting each of them when he was done he found that they were almost perfect, no wrinkles, no cuts and none looked frosted. He lubed them with the Vaseline he'd found in the glove box and, pulling the material from his face, he sat back on the ground to rest before picking up the hand press.

He'd made bullets with the help of his father using a bench press and the hand press with its accompanying dies made the remainder of his task fairly simple and as he slipped the six bullets into the Colt he heard his brother cry out.

"Sammy, I'm coming," Dean Winters shouted at the very same time Dean Winchester whispered the same words.

The latter stood, arms folded, leaning into the wall of the small church. He watched his brother's anxious face as Dean Winter's approached him, gun in hand. An easy smile broke out on his face as he thought lasciviously how Jessica Moore would take that frown and turn it upside-down; turn his brother's whole world upside-down for that matter.

Seeing her again he remembered what a babe she was. Not really his type but perfect for his brother. His type was tall, dark, sultry and above all flexible and when he'd seen Lisa again it was as if all the years they'd been apart had simply melted away. She and Ben had been only a few miles from Carthage when Death had reared his ugly head and she had been waiting for him ever since. She was the first person he saw…after.

Ben was with her and had grown almost half a foot since he'd last seen him. Dean introduced Lisa and her son to his father and John Winchester had smiled easily and ruffled the kid's spiked hair. He was the spitting image of Dean at that age he thought. And Mary, seeing the son she thought lost to her for all time, had simply wrapped Dean in her arms and rocked him gently back and forth, her tears of joy dampening his shirt front.

He'd only been gone a few hours, died in Sammy's arms in the little church in the middle of nowhere, but again time was relative and he'd had a chance to hug both Ellen and Jo hard enough to dislocate a rib or two and when he'd tried to thank them for…everything…he couldn't find the snark and instead just broke down and sobbed like a girl until Bobby walked up to him and pulled him roughly into his arms and close to his heart.

The older hunter, none the worse for his hard life on earth, had then preceded to call him Princess and told him to stop blubbering before he had the whole lot of them bawling like babies. Kind of like what Sammy was threatening to do at that very moment.

Dean focused again on his brother's wretched face as Sam talked to Dean Winters and he wanted to call out to him, "Yo, dude, have a little faith in mini-me. He knows what he's doing," but his voice couldn't be heard above the growls of Lucifer and the teenager's hand shook almost uncontrollably as he aimed the Colt at Sam Winchester.

The boy knew in his head that it had to be the devil putting the fear of God into him. He'd shot both of his parents point blank when he was thirteen and this was just some washed up hunter but, for the life of him, he couldn't pull the trigger. He couldn't take one more life and lowered the gun.

"Dean," young Sam said in fearful warning to his brother. Even as young as he was Sam Winters knew that Lucifer was shredding his vessel. Sam Winchester continued to hemorrhage and the devil would soon walk among them again if his brother didn't do something. Lucifer was talking to him, had been talking to him all along. But he was just a little kid and couldn't fight back and would probably be too scared to say no.

"I got it, Sammy," the teen barked out harshly and swallowed thickly, his breath coming in pants like a run out dog. He lifted his gun hand again and with his other arm wiped his sweaty brow on his jacket sleeve.

Sam Winchester took in a deep breath and began to bleed from his nose as Lucifer tested his returning strength just as he tested Dean Winter's resolve. The panic in the demon began to give way to relief and determination.

Even a gutting with Michael's heavenly sword couldn't keep him down for long and he was fast becoming stronger than the boy with the gun and in mere minutes would slam him across to room and into the wall, hopefully breaking his neck and killing him instantly. The colt would fall uselessly to the floor and the younger Winters brother would be all alone in the world.

Lucifer would then frighten him out of his wits and the child would gladly allow him in to make it all stop. The devil would leave this tomb to his brother Michael and the Winchesters. Victory was at hand, Lucifer felt, and with Michael out of the way he would ascend to the base of his Father's throne where he would lay the world in all its ruin at God's feet and he would bathe in the tears of God himself.

Sam Winchester, knowing Lucifer's thoughts and plans, fought with all his strength to be heard. Pushing to the forefront of his own body, his own mind he shouted, "Dean, you gotta do this!"

The teen knew he had to but with Lucifer's help his trepidation had turned to fear and his fear had turned to full blown terror as he looked into Sam Winchester's ravaged, pleading face. "I can't man," he finally spat out, "I can't do it to you. After all you've been through."

"It's okay," Sam assured him wondering when and why the boy's disdain of all things Sam Winchester had turned to compassion. He knew that Lucifer was fucking royally with the kid and assured him, "I'm not afraid."

"But I am," Dean admitted ashamedly, his eyes wild with fear, and he paused a long while before telling Sam, "I know all about it. I know what your brother went through and if I close my eyes...I can see hell. I can see me on the rack and I can't do it. I can't go there."

"Trust me, if you kill me you won't go to hell. I started all of this. I let it happen. You need to do what my brother never could. You need to kill me," Sam almost begged him adding, "Please, do it to save your brother."

Dean Winters turned to look at Sammy who stared up at him his eyes brimming with tears and he growled in frustration. Turning back to Sam he raised the gun high again and a new determined look crossed his face and anger sparked in his eyes. "You leave my brother alone you son of a bitch," he whispered and, without any more hesitation, he pulled the trigger.

The blast was like thunder and Sam Winchester's body bucked and began to flicker as the cursed divine light shown brightly one second then faded away the next until there was nothing left but Sam Winchester, dully human and mortally wounded.

Lucifer could withstand a stroke from Michael's sword but he was no match for a bullet forged from celestial metal fired from a revolver made by Samuel Colt for the express purpose of doing God's own work.

As Sam watched the blood pour from the gaping hole in his chest he felt no pain and when he finally looked up he spotted his brother who had made his way to the three of them from his place in the back of the church. Dean Winchester placed a hand on his namesake's shoulder and squeezed and the teen started badly, a chill running the length of his body.

Ignoring the feeling, the boy squatted down in front of Sam Winchester one final time. "I'm so sorry, dude…"he started as a single tear slipped from beneath his lash.

Sam stopped him; his own tears now following the grooves of a thousand lifetimes etched in his haggard face. "It's okay," he assured the boy, a crooked smile breaking out on his face as he looked past the teen and up into the smiling face of his brother.

Incredibly, Dean Winchester stood before him, straight and tall, no sign of the fatal wound to his body, no sign of the anger or the guilt that he had buried so deeply within him for so many years, no sign of the pain that had clouded his eyes for so very, very long. Just a twinkle in the clear, green orbs and a wide smile on his handsome face.

Remembering his brother's love for his car Sam winked at Dean and asked the boys, "You'll take care of the Impala, won't you? She's got all the stuff you guys'll need." In the harsh light of the Coleman lantern Sam could see Dean Winter's face fall as he forced him back to reality and added "Lucifer's dead but there's still a lot of evil out there and without the big boss around there'll be a bunch of infighting. The demons will be vulnerable and that's when you need to strike."

The teen didn't skip a beat and nodded in understanding as he accepted his fate. But still believing that everything could go back to normal, young Sam wanted desperately for Sam Winchester to get better and take up again where he had left off so that he and his brother could just go home. "We gotta call 9-1-1," the boy said urgently kneeling on the floor before the stricken hunter.

"You're gonna have to help your brother carry on," Sam said kindly and young Sam started to cry.

As much as young Dean wanted to cry himself he held it in and wrapped his arm around his brother drawing him in close. The teen then asked Sam, "Is it okay to use your laptop, your dad's book?"

Sam nodded and added in a failing voice, "Just don't use my brother's little black book until you're a little older."

Dean Winters laughed for the first time in a long, long time and he instinctively knew that he and Sammy would be okay if they were together. A master hunter's journal and a sweet ride were just what they needed to continue the journey they had started together two years before. "We'll take care of…everything…when you…" Dean started but couldn't bring himself to state the obvious.

"Maybe we should still call a doctor," young Sam suggested still grasping at straws, "Maybe that's how the book is supposed to end."

Sam Winchester just shook his head. The last surviving Winchester knew exactly how the book would end when Dean Winchester reached out his hand to him and said, "Let's go, Sasquatch," and smiling, Sam assured the boys in a strong clear voice, "It's okay. I can go now. My brother's come back for me."

The next morning the sun broke through the clouds and as they headed away from Mediggo, Kansas, Sam Winters asked, "Hey, Dean. What's this?"

"It's a cassette tape, Sammy. Like a CD for cavemen."

"What's an AC/DC?"

"The best heavy metal band ever."

"What's Kansas?"

"A state…and a band."

"Can we play it?"

"Sure."

Carry on my wayward son  
There'll be peace when you are done  
Lay your weary head to rest  
Don't you cry no more

Once I rose above the noise and confusion  
Just to get a glimpse beyond this illusion  
I was soaring ever higher  
But I flew too high

Though my eyes could see I still was a blind man  
Though my mind could think I still was a mad man  
I hear the voices when I'm dreaming  
I can hear them say

Carry on my wayward son  
There'll be peace when you are done  
Lay your weary head to rest  
Don't you cry no more

Masquerading as a man with a reason  
My charade is the event of the season  
And if I claim to be a wise man, well  
It surely means that I don't know

On a stormy sea of moving emotion  
Tossed about I'm like a ship on the ocean  
I set a course for winds of fortune  
But I hear the voices say

Carry on my wayward son  
There'll be peace when you are done  
Lay your weary head to rest  
Don't you cry no more  
No!

Carry on, you will always remember  
Carry on, nothing equals the splendor  
The center lights around your vanity  
But surely heaven waits for you

Carry on my wayward son  
There'll be peace when you are done  
Lay your weary head to rest  
Don't you cry (don't you cry no more)


End file.
